


Argyle Square Gardens

by xRabbitx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Top Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 19:53:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xRabbitx/pseuds/xRabbitx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after The Battle of Hogwarts. Blaise deals in antiques, and Draco is a dick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Argyle Square Gardens

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first HP fic in years (and my first Draco/Blaise ever), so please be gentle with me. This was beta'ed by little_werewolf, because she's awesome, but please let me know if you find any typos.

*

 

          “Excuse me.”

          “Excuse you,” Blaise huffs, turning to glare at the person who so rudely bumped into his shoulder. People are bustling past him on the busy street, but it takes him only a split second to locate and recognize the person who turns around to send him an equally disdainful glare; tall, white-blond hair, light grey eyes, a soft splash of very pale freckles across the pointed nose.

          Draco Malfoy looks a lot better than he did last time Blaise saw him in a small picture in The Prophet five years ago, muddied, bloodied, thin, and battered, appearing above the headline, “Draco Malfoy Cleared of All Charges”. Blaise hasn’t heard of or seen him since, but then, Blaise doesn’t have any interest in his old housemates. Most of them haven’t amounted to much, anyway. Draco looks like he’s doing well, though. His clothes are neat and clean, his hair is longer, but nicely kempt. At his side, he’s carrying a leather briefcase, expensive-looking, but not overly so—the Malfoys must have successfully have sent some of their vast fortune in hiding before the Ministry could seize it.

          “Zabini.” Draco is the first to break the silence with his familiar drawl. They weren’t on the best of terms at the end, but there is something oddly comforting in knowing that at least Draco’s drawl will always be the same, war or no war.

          “Malfoy,” Blaise drawls back at him, then extends a gloved hand, which Draco, after a second’s hesitation, grabs to shake. Draco’s shake is firm, confident, a little aggressive, just like the old Draco was.

          “You’re looking well,” Blaise observes coolly, releasing Draco’s hand to brush some imaginary dust off the front of his coat. “Doing well for yourself, are you?”

          “I should say so,” Draco replies with a curt nod, eyes curiously gliding over Blaise’s appearance and apparently taking in every last detail with greed. “I’m studying International Wizarding Law in Johannesburg. Just home for the holidays.”

          “I see.” So that’s why Draco has been missing from London life. Blaise’s lip curls slightly. “Law, is it? What a peculiar choice given—well…” Blaise gestures at nothing in particular.

          “Not really,” Draco says with an air of boredom. This is clearly not the first time he’s had to explain this. “I got quite an intimate look at the wizarding justice system a few years back, and it sparked my interest.” He gives Blaise a look, a determined look, as if refusing to let the past embarrass him. Then he blinks, clears his throat and changes the subject. “And you? You look like you’re doing well for yourself.”

          “I am,” Blaise responds evenly. “I deal in antiques.”

          “Ah.” Draco smirks, a look that suits him. “Given up on your dream of pursuing Witch Weekly’s Best Snarl of the Year award, then?”

          Blaise lets out a laugh in spite of himself and is instantly reminded of their bantering before things turned sour between them. “Yes. It was not to be, sadly.” Draco’s smirk loosens into something resembling a smile.

          “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, then looks up as a chill winds gently sweeps down the street, bringing with it a soft cloud of snow. Blaise watches as a fat, fluffy snowflake lands right on the tip of Draco’s nose. It instantly melts away and leaves the skin lightly flushed. Draco wipes the droplet away with the back of his hand.

          “Say,” Blaise says as their eyes meet again, “I’m throwing a little Christmas get-together on Friday. You won’t know anyone there except me, but if you’d like to come…”

          “A dinner party?”

          “You could call it that, yes.”

          Draco nods, seemingly more to himself than anyone else. “I’ll have to check my calendar first. Christmas time is always so busy.”

          They both know Christmas isn’t busy for either of them. Blaise only has his mother, and Draco only his parents. Everyone else is either dead or in prison.

          “Here’s my address,” Blaise says and digs a business card out of his inside pocket. “Send me an owl if you can make it.”

          Draco nods again and they exchange handshakes. As Blaise leaves and continues his walk down the busy street, he is convinced that he is never going to see Draco again.

          Blaise doesn’t care quite as much about his looks at he did when he was sixteen—he will still look neat at all times, of course—and he has taken some of that energy he used to spend on his look and put it to good use elsewhere; his kitchen. Cooking with magic is certainly easiest and quickest, but Blaise has come to enjoy doing everything by hand—except the dirty dishes. No, dirty dishes are always cleaned with magic. On the day of the dinner party, Blaise spends all morning shopping for ingredients and all afternoon cooking. He has spent a few weeks in Japan on a business trip earlier that year, and tonight he wants to introduce his guests to Japanese cuisine via homemade miso soup, seafood tempura, sushi, and finally Japanese cheesecake and mochi ice cream. Since most of the dishes are best when prepared right before consumption, Blaise spends most of the afternoon chopping and dicing and boiling the required ingredients.

          An hour before his guests are due to arrive, Blaise finishes in the kitchen and takes a nice, long shower. As he is brushing his teeth and gazing at his own reflection in the foggy mirror after the shower, Blaise suddenly realizes that he hasn’t heard from Draco. Blaise is struck by a sense of disappointment, but he hastily forces it out of his mind with an appropriate grimace at himself in the mirror. If Draco doesn’t want to come, then fine, he is more than welcome to stay away.

          The grimace has been replaced with a smooth smile by the time Blaise’s guests arrive, and he welcomes them as they arrive, exchanging handshakes, cheek kisses, and pats on the shoulder. They are mostly people Blaise knows through his work, clients and colleagues, which is also the main reason they are invited here. Blaise is very skilled at the subtle art of kissing ass without appearing to be. His guests, three women and five men, are all older than him and considerably dull, but Blaise knows how to work them just right to make them think he finds them the most interesting people on the planet. They laugh at his jokes, praises his choices in foods and wines, books, music, and even the way his decorated his small Argyle Square townhouse is apparently to everyone’s satisfaction. Blaise makes sure to keep the conversation going as he steadily refills their glasses every time they’re empty. The men and women’s cheeks turn rosier as the evening progresses, and by midnight, Blaise has secured three new commissions and one agreement of cooperation. All in all, a very successful evening.

          “Good heavens,” Allesandra Twircock giggles, her enormous chest bouncing slightly, as the clock in the sitting room strikes midnight. “We’ve kept you up far too late, dear Blaise. You’ve just been such lovely company.”

          “Hear, hear,” says one of the men, sporting a monocle, and raises his glass to empty it. “I dare say, it’s time to head homeward.”

          Blaise’s protests are only for show, and he quickly gets up to help everyone with their hats and coats. He reaches for the doorknob to hold the door open as his guests leave, but when he opens the door, he finds a man standing there with blond hair and cheeks flushed from the cold.

          Draco looks up and opens his mouth at the people staring out at him, then closes his mouth again before apparently getting himself together and saying, “Oh. I’m sorry, I was in the neighborhood, and—well, I didn’t mean to disturb.”

          “No worries, young man,” Allesandra Twircock twitters, cheeks bright pink, as she and the others surveys Draco from the door. “We were just leaving.”

          Draco stays quiet while everyone says their farewells. He silently watches them until they have all apparated at Blaise’s garden gate, then turns to look at Blaise. Blaise isn’t quite sure what to make of the situation and the fact that Draco has just turned up on his doorstep late at night. Part of him is rather pleased, but instead of showing it, he narrows his eyes a bit, arching an eyebrow.

          “In the neighborhood, eh?” Blaise folds his arms over his chest and regards Draco, secretly enjoying the fact that he’s taller than Draco (of course, he is only taller because Draco is standing two steps below him).

          “Shut up,” Draco huffs. “Are you going to let me in? It’s freezing out here.”

          Blaise’s lips curls into a smirk, and he steps aside to let Draco past him and into the warmth, then closes the door. Draco is wrapped up in so many layers that it takes him quite a while to get it all off. Blaise watches him with an amused smile; even though he’s a grown man, there is still something awkward about Draco and the way he moves his arms and legs. It is almost as if he hasn’t gotten used to the length yet. Blaise huffs a quiet chuckle to himself, then crosses his arms as Draco straightens up.

          “How did you get so tall?” Blaise asks. “I distinctively remember being taller than you.”

          Draco shrugs. “I was a late bloomer, I suppose,” he says. “Malnutrition and constant fearing for your family’s utter annihilation aren’t good for a growing boy as it turns out.”

          Blaise snorts and shows Draco into the sitting room. The coffee table is still cluttered with empty dessert plates and glasses, but Blaise takes care of them with a flick of his wand.

          “Can I get you anything?” Blaise asks as Draco sits down on the couch, looking curiously around the room. “Wine?”

          “Wine would be nice.”

          “Red or white?”

          Draco’s lip curls. “White.”

          They spend the next few hours talking about the old days, trying their best to avoid mentioning the names of any of their dead housemates. In fact, they limit their reminiscing to the early years of their Hogwarts life where things hadn’t been so gloomy. They share a bottle of white wine as they talk, and when they have finished it, they decide that it would be in their best interest to open another one. The conversation flows more freely with the alcohol in their blood, and they veer off the old days to focus on the present and future instead. Blaise watches Draco’s face, cheeks light pink, as Draco tells him about his life in Johannesburg. In many ways, Draco hasn’t changed at all since their early school days. Blaise knows every little arch of the pale eyebrows, the quirk of his mouth, the soft wrinkle on the bridge of his nose when he is displeased with something, and yet, in other ways, the man sitting next to him on the couch is completely different from the boy Blaise once knew. Draco’s movements are calm, his eyes are calm, but his mouth and forehead, playfully alive. He seems grounded in a way that seemed impossible to imagine when he was young. The intense, almost desperate need for attention and approval has apparently been replaced with confidence and general air of ease. It’s a very attractive quality, Blaise has to admit.

          “So, are you planning to stay in South Africa?” Blaise asks, licking the wine from his last sip off his lips. “Perhaps you’ve got someone waiting for you there?”

          “Not really,” Draco replies, leaning back a bit while absentmindedly fiddling with the silver ring on his forefinger. “I don’t know.”

          “About staying in South Africa or about someone waiting?”

          “About staying,” Draco says, still fiddling with the ring. Draco’s fingers are long and smooth-looking. He has his father’s hands, but where Lucius’ long fingers used to scare Blaise as a child, they seem harmless on Draco. It’s hard to imagine that those hands came close to killing Albus Dumbledore once. “I used to have someone waiting for me, but I suppose he lost his patience.”

          “He?”

          “Yeah. He.” Draco’s eyes narrow, and Blaise sees that same spark of defiance and refusal to be embarrassed he saw on the street the other day.

          Blaise can’t help but smile a bit. Trust Draco to come out so off-handedly. “Don’t fret, friend. I’ve never been particular concerned about hes or shes anyway.”

          “So I’ve heard,” Draco smirks and picks up his glass. Before he takes sip, he adds, “Don’t think the entire school didn’t know what you were up to during the Yule Ball.”

          “At least I was up to something,” Blaise retorts. “You were too busy being worshipped by those third year girls. And moaning about Potter.”

          “Please, let’s not talk about Potter,” Draco groans, rolling his eyes. “I’m quite happy with my current Potter-free existence.”

          “Oh, come now,” Blaise says, refilling their glasses. “Don’t tell me you’re still carrying that old grudge around.”

          “I’m not!” Draco huffs, shaking his head. “He was right, I was wrong, and all that. He did the wizarding world a great service back then, I don’t deny that, but that doesn’t mean that I have to like him. He was a prat, Chosen One or not.”

          Blaise shrugs. “I never knew him. I don’t think I’ve ever even talked to him even though we were both in the Slug Club.”

          “That’s it, rub it in,” Draco snorts. “Bleeding Slug Club.” His cheeks have pinkened even more by now and white locks of hair had started coming loose from the neat bun at the back of his head. Blaise is gripped by the sudden urge to reach out and tuck the locks back into place. Or maybe just touch them.

          “Do you know what he’s up to these days? Potter?” Blaise asks and leans over to open a drawer in the side table next to the couch. He fishes out a pack of thin, black cigarettes. It’s not a habit he indulges often, but the wine and good company tempt him. He offers one to Draco. “I haven’t seen his name in the papers in a few years.”

          Draco shrugs and accepts Blaise’s offer. “No idea. I don’t care. Maybe he’s fallen down a well.” He smirks, and then leans closer to let Blaise light the cigarette. The flame throws a burst of light over Draco’s face and their eyes meet. It lasts just a second, then Draco leans back again, blowing out a smoke ring towards the ceiling. “What about you?” he asks.

          “What about me?”

          “Is there someone waiting for you somewhere?”

          “Not that I’m aware of, no,” Blaise replies. The smoke and the warmth and the alcohol make his body feel light, like he’s slowly being submerged in warm water. A clock somewhere dings.

          “Shit,” Draco mumbles. “It’s almost four.”

          “It’s too bad you’re not a Muggle.”

          “Why would you say that?”

          “Well, then I’d insist that it was too late for you to go anywhere,” Blaise says casually, a silly, butterfly-y feeling erupting somewhere right behind his navel. “I’d insist that you sleep over. But you can just Apparate out of here whenever you want, can’t you? No need for busses or tubes.”

          Draco’s cheeks turn a slightly darker shade of pink, and he scowls as he takes another drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke into Blaise’s face.

          Blaise wakes up in soft, white sheets. The pale winter sunlight is forcing itself through the blinds, bathing the room in a cotton-warm glow, and the bustling noise of London waking up is drumming against the windows. There is something moving under the sheets, a hand sliding over Blaise’s hip and a set of lips brushing against his spine.

           “Mm’morning,” Blaise hums, voice gravelly from wine and smoke.

          Draco grunts from somewhere under the sheets, his breath tickling Blaise’s skin as his lips slowly move downwards. His movements are careful, almost methodical in their progression, and Blaise is reminded of the way Draco used to employ the same kind of carefulness in Potions class. Draco would measure and re-measure every ingredient until he was satisfied, and it was probably why he was best in that class, after that over-achiever Hermione, of course.

          Blaise doesn’t get to think more about potions, over-achievers, and Draco’s thoroughness, because Draco’s lips have reached the cleft between his buttocks. Blaise lets out a soft grunt when he feels the warm, slippery tip of Draco’s tongue slide down the crack, his lazy humming vibrating off of Blaise’s skin. Blaise rolls over to lie on his belly to give Draco easier access, and Draco follows him under the sheets, his tongue immediately sliding back to where it was once Blaise has settled. Blaise lets out a long, shaking sigh as his eyes flicker closed. Last night was nothing like this; it was raw, fast, clumsy. Not that he has checked, but Blaise is pretty sure there are bruises on the insides of his thighs from where Draco’s hipbones slammed against his skin, again and again. He is also convinced that if he looked, he would find scratches on Draco’s back and shoulders from where Blaise held on.

          A shuddering groan slips out between Blaise’s lips when Draco’s tongue pushes against his muscle. It’s rather sore from last night, but the pain is a just a welcomed edge to the pleasure, and Blaise’s back arches, lifting his ass up to meet Draco’s tongue. Draco meets Blaise’s movement and pushes his tongue past the muscle, drawing another groan from Blaise.

          “You taste like me,” Draco breathes as he pulls away a moment later. Blaise is too caught up in the moment to reply with more than a soft grunt. He can feel Draco grin against the back of his thigh, then draws in a sharp breath as Draco moves forward, emerging from under the sheets and pressing his naked cock against Blaise’s ass. Blaise looks over his shoulder to see Draco’s flushed face and tousled, white hair, and he has just enough time to smile before Draco presses his lips against Blaise’s, panting softly into the kiss. As they kiss, Draco tilts his hips slightly, making his cock slide between Blaise’s buttocks and through the mess of spit Draco has left there.

          “You’re such a tease,” Blaise breathes when Draco just keeps rubbing against him. “Just like you were back in school.”

          “Oh, I’m a tease?” Draco huffs with a snort.

          “Yeah. I saw how you had poor Pansy practically turn herself inside out with sexual frustration.”

          “Well, her ass wasn’t half as amazing as yours,” Draco hums. A second later, he has Blaise grunting as Draco pushes the tip of his cock inside.

          Draco is taking his sweet time through the entire thing, and it’s driving Blaise half insane. It leaves him squirming and clawing at the sheets until Draco drives deep into him and sets off a series of crackling explosions down Blaise’s spine. Draco follows him a minute later, panting heavily against the small of Blaise’s back.

          Draco leaves that same morning, and Blaise watches him as he crosses the street and cuts through the garden square, the winter sun caught in his pale hair. Draco could have apparated the second he left Blaise’s cadaster, but apparently he prefers to walk. For being an excellent wizard, Draco uses surprisingly little magic.

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of this.


End file.
